


Brothers In Arms

by Zanne Chaos (Kuchenhexe)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Gen, Military, Military Backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-17
Updated: 2007-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuchenhexe/pseuds/Zanne%20Chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Havoc enlisted in the military, and didn't have aspirations above and beyond that. But his squad buddy had his own sights aimed higher, and Breda succeeds in getting Havoc to try for OCS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers In Arms

**Author's Note:**

> I tried my best to be as close to accurate as possible in regard to enlistment, boot camp, and OCS, and I know I've likely messed up some technical details. In that case, since it's not the United States we're talking about here but Amestris, just tell yourself that it's just the differences of administration, as well as the time and era. Since it can be difficult to get into military academies, and a lot of officers in the United States military get their training in Officer Candidate School instead, I figured it might have been more likely for Havoc and Breda to have gone a route like that in Amestris. Much of the terminology and details comes from About.Com US Military, and part of the inspiration as well as getting a general basic feel for the environment comes from two Vietnam era novels by Leonard B. Scott - The Hill and The Expendables. The AMAT, though the concept is based on the ASVAB, is completely fictional and stands for Amestris Military Aptitude Test. I apologize if it feels like I glossed over stuff -- at times I lacked sufficient confidence at being able to portray what I'd need to, and ergo, glossing. ^_^;; Some of the details for Havoc and Breda might not match up quite right timeline-wise with canon, at least not manga canon, but anime's open to interpretation at least. Hope it's still a good read though, despite me never having tackled a basic training environment in a story before.

> _Someday you'll return to your valleys and farms,  
>  And you'll no longer burn to be brothers in arms._  
>  \- Dire Straits

 

He thought he'd been in shape, having grown up working on a farm. He was still ahead of most of the other recruits, and that alone was enough to make him wonder how they even _survived_ , because he sure as hell wanted to crawl in a hole and not move for a week. There was never enough time for sleep, never enough time to even begin to recover from the brutal training from the previous day before dragging out of bed, ass-tired and feeling like a walking bruise, and resuming the cycle. At the rate they were going, he doubted he'd even get out to Ishbal. It wouldn't be war that killed him. Boot camp would do him in.

_"The State of Amestris regrets to inform you that your son, Jean Havoc, has died in training. He didn't have what it took to even live long enough to get killed in war like a proper soldier."_

That's what they'd say.

He needed rest. They all needed rest. There was one chance for it -- a very slim chance, so slim it might as well not even exist. But it was there. If the squad scored top marks in every department by the end the following week during the second evaluation, they would be given one day liberty passes. And even if they didn't make it that far, the squads who finished up the six weeks of training with the high scores would be more likely to get decent assignments. If they wanted to have a chance at anything, they needed to do more than just survive by the skin of their teeth.

They had to excel.

In order for the squad to excel, they could not afford another recruit dropping out on a run. Their marks were already far enough behind as it were. It was stupid and foolhardy and it would ensure that the drill instructors would know his name for certain, at which point he was pretty much screwed. He'd be their favorite, either as a 'volunteer' or a whipping boy, and sometimes the two were unfortunately interchangeable in basic training.

He'd talked about it the night before with his assigned platoon buddy, a short redhead with a brilliant, strategic mind and a body that rebelled at the physical strain of basic. Private Breda would rally them if he could, but he pointed out, and correctly so, not only did making it through the runs take more than what he could really give out of him to the point where he didn't have reserve energy to share, but the odds of the others listening to him past his puffing and wheezing weren't good.

Jean, though, he could do it. It was just the knowledge of getting the attention, and quite possibly wrath of the drill instructors if he tried, and the unpleasant possibility of latrine or guard duty. He looked over at his buddy, who was red-faced and winded and starting to wobble, his booted feet dragging on the dusty road. Breda had his sights set higher than just being a grunt, and Jean knew he deserved the chance to get that far. He'd help them get through the brutal physical training. And hopefully the favor would be paid back with help to get through the classes.

"McConnell!" Jean somehow found enough wind in his lungs to shout as he reached to his side and grabbed the belt of the shorter, heavier-set man who was huffing and puffing, looking close to passing out.

"Yo!"

"Get Tyson across the line! Men, check your teammates! We're all making it to the line, or none of us do! We're gonna get the scores, we're gonna get those liberty passes! We get through this, we do it as a team!"

Assorted cheers, some of them so winded they were barely audible, came from the other men. They all lacked true enthusiasm, but it still served its purpose as a psychological pep talk. It took them twenty minutes, but they finally reached the training base, winded and drenched in sweat and covered with a thin coating of red mud from the dusty clay. Not a single one of them had fallen out on the run, for the first time since the squad was formed on their arrival.

"SQUAD, ATTENTION!"

It was becoming reflex. The growling shout of a drill instructor was enough to snap their bodies rigid, despite the bone-deep fatigue.

"There was talking on the run today. Which one of you meatheads thought he could get away with chattering on like it's a Sunday social?"

Jean swallowed hard and stepped forward out of formation. "It was me, Drill Sergeant!"

The shorter, but stockier man stepped up close, straight into Jean's personal space, his face mere inches away. Jean kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, his back ramrod straight. "And who is 'me', meathead?" the drill sergeant barked.

"Private Jean Havoc, Drill Sergeant!"

"Well, Private Havoc" -- the man somehow made his name sound like something to be scraped off the bottom of a boot after a hike through a cow field -- "what made you think a puppy like you who hasn't even been properly housebroke yet is authorized to give orders?"

"I wasn't giving--"

"DON'T BULLSHIT ME, MAGGOT!" Somehow, Jean kept from flinching. "You gave the squad an unauthorized order! What made you think a dumb, sorry-looking animal like you knows enough to give anybody orders?"

"Drill Sergeant, I saw the men in my squad needed help!"

"YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT YOU SORRY GROUP OF PUPPIES NEED HELP. THERE AIN'T ENOUGH HELP IN THE UNIVERSE FOR YOU."

He could feel his temper rising, but struggled to keep his hands from clenching into fists.

He drew in a deep breath. "My motives were to keep my squad together and get all the men across the line, Drill Sergeant! The only way I could see us managing that is if we worked together!"

The moments of silence that followed seemed to stretch on forever, and he kept his gaze fixed on a distant spot on the horizon just over the drill sergeant's hat.

The man stepped away so suddenly that Jean almost startled, almost flinched in preparation for... well, anything really. Anything but what happened, and that was having a black and gray armband shoved at him.

"Meatheads, meet your new platoon leader! You will address Private Havoc as Platoon Leader Havoc! You want responsibility for this sorry lot of puppies, Private Havoc? Fine by me, I sure don't want these meatheads. You still piddle on the carpet and embarrass me. They're all yours!" 

His knees almost buckled with relief even while he was fighting back a dismayed groan. The drill sergeant hadn't been angry at all; quite the opposite in fact. He knew they never entrusted that kind of responsibility to anyone who didn't earn it. But at the same time, he remembered what he'd learned early on -- _don't volunteer for nothin'_. His duties were almost double that of the rest of the team. How was he going to find time to study now?

"You might be the platoon leader now, but you are still just a dumb-as-rocks meathead. That means you're going to need help doing your job right, is that understood?"

"Clear, Drill Sergeant!"

"Private Breda! Get your sorry ass up here!"

Breda stepped up next to him.

"This sorry-looking meathead thinks he's good enough to keep the rest of you animals in line, and I don't want to deal with a bunch of you running around like retarded apes. He's _your_ platoon buddy, meathead, you keep his ass in line, you got me?"

"Clear, Drill Sergeant!"

"Now. Platoon Leader Havoc, these animals are disgusting and sweaty and they stink! Are you going to just stand there?"

His voice cracked like a whip and Jean stood up even straighter if at all possible. "Drill Sergeant, permission to hit the showers!"

"Get your meatheads moving, you've got assembly in fifteen minutes!"

***

The classes after lunch were the hardest. Perpetually exhausted, his body kept trying to nap every time he was still for more than ten minutes, which made it harder to listen to the instructor, and the food in his belly didn't help fight off the heavy feeling on his eyelids. For a while, he'd tried taking notes to keep himself active, but note-taking and book studies had never been Jean's strong suit. The explanations of various military maneuvers and techniques sounded as cryptic as alchemy to his fatigue-fogged brain and when the squad was released from the classroom, he couldn't even remember what the day's topic had been.

"Your notes are shit, Havoc," his squad partner said as they left the room.

"Yeah, Breda, I know. Thanks ever so much for pointing it out in case I overlooked that too."

"You need a hand with your studying?"

"I need a hand, more rest, more time, more everything but P.T.. They're trying to fit forty-eight hours of stuff into twenty-four."

That made Breda chuckle. "Naw, man. They're fitting twenty-four army hours of stuff into twenty-four hours."

"Sure don't feel like it."

"That's because you're thinking of civilian time. We're on military time now, buddy. You know what Crowlings told us."

"There's the right way to do something, the wrong way, and the army way?"

"Damn straight. This is the army way of telling time."

"That's extraordinarily fascinating to me, Heymans, but that's not gonna help me get through this."

"Neither will I, if you keep calling me that."

"I need it, man. I can't even keep my general orders straight. I know them, the basics of it, but I can't keep the words right. They don't want the basics, they want me to be able to rattle them off like I was reading them outta the handbook. And being platoon leader... I'm never gonna make it."

"Give me an hour a night after lights out for the rest of the week, and I'll figure out a way to get them pounded into your thick meathead skull in time for the next platoon review."

"Man, you don't gotta do that, you need your sleep."

"So do you, but I wouldn't have made it this far into the training if not for you pushing me on the runs. I'll make you a deal. You get me through the physical crap, and I'll get you through the classrooms." He smirked. "Besides, I'm supposed to keep your ass in line."

Jean sighed. "Fine, fine. Deal. Why'd you sign up for this anyhow? You had to know this was gonna be rough."

Breda shrugged. "I'm not gonna be a grunt forever. I've got my eyes on stars, you know that."

"Yeah, I know, and you'd make a good officer. Why didn't you just go to the Academy though?"

"They still have P.T. in the Academy."

"But it ain't like this."

"You need connections to get there, which I don't have." He eyed Jean critically. "Why don't you try for it too? You showed some damn good leadership potential out there today."

"Officer Candidate School?" Jean frowned. "I thought that was something the military picked you out for, not the other way around."

"Not exactly. You can apply for it. It's hard to get into. You've got something going for you already, being platoon leader. What were your scores on the admission tests?"

"Sixty-something."

That got a frown out of Breda. "You need at minimum a hundred-ten. But you get a second shot at the testing once we're done with boot camp. You can talk to Sergeant Peytin, see about getting an app put through for OCS now, and then if you qualify, you'd be set for the next class opening after graduation."

"That'd be a lot more work. I don't know if I could get through that."

"It's bigger paychecks to send home."

"A sergeant's pay isn't shoddy."

"No, but promotions happen more during wartime. The State Alchemists are already out there, and they're starting to ship our guys back home. All that's left by the time we're out is gonna be a cleanup detail at best." Breda stopped walking and faced him. "You've got the physical part well in hand. And you've got what it takes to lead on an instinctive level. That's something that can't be taught. C'mon, man."

Jean shook his head. "Why do I let you talk me into these crazy ideas? And you're gonna be an officer? Does anyone know just how deviant you really are?"

Breda grinned. "Nobody has a clue. And somebody had to corrupt you out of that squeaky clean farmboy image you came in here with."

"My mother's going to wonder what happened to me."

"If you get your louie stars, she'll be too proud to notice." 

"I already said fine! You don't gotta keep selling me on this. Someday though I'm gonna learn my lesson about listening to you."

"Someday, my friend, but today is not that day."

***

It was after lights-out, but lights-out meant exactly that, and nothing more. The lights were turned out, as required. The only rule that was enforced after lights-out was that noise and talking had to be kept to quieter levels for those who _were_ trying to sleep. Quite often, the barracks were still a busy place as the men worked often till after midnight cleaning everything spotless in preparation for morning inspections.

Sleep had become a precious commodity in boot camp, followed only by hot meals in the mess hall instead of canned rations.

Clad in regulation shorts and tank tops, the two men sat on the floor in the shower room in almost complete darkness, save for what came in from the lamps outside, and occasionally Jean's lighter when more was needed for Breda to check his notes to make sure fatigue and Jean's own confusion weren't throwing him off.

"The first general order? Shit." Havoc scratched the back of his head before letting it thump against the whitewashed cinder blocks, and took another drag on his cigarette. "Uh, it's... guard everything in the limits of my post?"

"You forgot the 'I will'."

"Fuck you," Jean grumbled around a yawn. " _I will_ guard everything in the limits of my post."

"And?"

"And? There's more to it?"

"Yep."

"Fuck. Okay. And... uh. And perform all of my duties in a military manner?"

"That's part of the second general order, not the first."

Jean groaned and shifted his feet on the floor, his forearms draped on his knees. "Throw this dog of the military a bone here."

"You're still a recruit. That makes you a puppy of the military."

"Everyone's a comedian."

"The first two words of the rest of it are 'and quit'."

"Quit... um. Shit. More?"

"You can do it." This time, Breda's words formed around a deep yawn.

Jean tried to fight off his without success, and rubbed his hand over his face, feeling bleary and half-asleep already. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can. You wouldn't let me drop out of runs, I'm not letting you drop out of this."

Jean thunked his head back again and took another drag as he squinted against the darkness, trying to think. "And quit my post only when properly relieved?"

"You got it! All together, now."

"I will guard everything within the limits of my post and quit my post only when properly relieved."

"Now, let's go on to the second."

"I will perform all my duties in a military manner?"

"That's the second part of the second order. What's the first?"

"Hell if I know."

"What will you obey?"

"My superiors?"

"Well, yeah, that too, but that's not what it says."

"My orders?"

"What kind of orders?"

"Orders... given to me?"

This time, Breda groaned. "Let's try another tactic. Can you give me the first order again?"

Jean repeated it, then added, "but I'll likely forget by tomorrow."

"Let's just try and see if we can get them in your head tonight, and I'll work on figuring out a way to help you remember them. What's your biggest problem with it?"

"All the orders have more than one part, and I get them mixed up when I do remember them."

"That seems to be the problem, you're thinking of them as individual parts rather than a continuous thought. What do you guard?"

"Everything in the limits of my post."

"When do you quit?"

"When properly relieved." Jean paused, thinking about that. "Hey..."

"Yeah. That's how it works. What's your second general order?" 

"I will obey my orders and do all my duties in a military manner?"

"Close, but no cigar. They're special orders."

"What's so special about them? Do they have sparkly pasties or something?"

"Talk about an order that'd get everyone standin' at attention," Breda said.

"Like that bar we all went to before the pick-up bus arrived? Man, I didn't think they came in sizes _that_ big." Jean grinned. "I think I want me a girl like that."

"You'd take a girl like that home to your momma?"

"Naw, not like that. She'd be good and wholesome and make a perfect wife, just..." He held his hands in front of his chest to demonstrate. "Just in possession of some impressive Northern acreage."

"If you keep that up, Havoc, I'm gonna start making farm comparisons to sex, and that gets me into territory that'll produce nightmare fodder."

"Wussy city boy."

"Hey, if animals are your--"

Jean kicked out sideways at his buddy's leg. "Dirty old man," he said over Breda's muffled laughter. "Help me with the damn orders already."

***

After lunch, there was a bit of time between the classroom and the weapons training. Just enough time, Jean hoped, to talk to the sergeant about his plans. He knocked, and stood at attention, waiting until given permission to enter.

"What do you want, meathead?" Sergeant Peytin asked, the old leather swivel chair creaking as he leaned back in it.

Jean stood at attention in front of the desk. "Drill Instructor, I would like to talk to you about submitting an application for OCS."

The sergeant didn't reply immediately. "At ease, private. Tell me what's on your mind."

Jean shifted position, setting his feet apart and clasping his hands behind his back. "Private Breda convinced me that I have a shot at OCS and that the military could use people like me for officers."

"While it's true we could use men out there in command with natural leadership abilities, and you have been demonstrating that, that's not the only requirement. What was your score on your AMAT?"

"Sixty-something, Drill Instructor. I don't recall exactly what."

"Sixty or sixty-five, then." There was a soft tapping sound as he drummed his pencil against his desk. "You are aware that you need a minimum score of a hundred ten?"

"Clear, Drill Instructor. I was told that I would be given a second shot at the AMAT on request after graduation and that if I passed high enough, my application would be accepted if I qualified in the other departments."

"And you want to get the paperwork underway in hopes of it being cleared when you graduate?"

"That's right, Drill Instructor."

"You could wait until after you take the AMAT to start the paperwork."

"I would like the shot at going into OCS with my platoon buddy, Drill Instructor."

There was silence for a few more moments. "I'll talk to Top. If he agrees, we'll get the paperwork underway."

Jean couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Thank you, Drill Instructor!"

Suddenly the man's demeanor changed, and he stood up, bellowing. "Now get out of my office! Your unwashed meathead body is stinking the place up!"

"Clear, Drill Instructor!" Jean backed out and sprinted for the firing range.

***

"Drill Instructor, I will guard everything within the limits of my post and quit my post only when properly relieved! I will obey my special orders and perform all of my duties in a military manner! And, I will report violations of my special orders, emergencies, and anything not covered in my instructions to the commander of the relief!" Jean recited, then held his breath, not even seeing the trees that marked the distant boundary of the camp. He mentally reviewed what he said, and he didn't think that he'd said anything wrong, but...

Why wasn't he _saying_ anything?

Oh, god. He was walking away. He didn't say anything. Was that good or bad? Jean dared to let his eyes flick over briefly in the drill instructor's direction. Despite the cool morning air, he was sweating like he'd just finished a twenty mile run.

The drill instructor and the first sergeant were talking in low tones, looking over papers on the clipboard in the first sergeant's hand.

Why didn't they say something? Did he get it right?

Finally, the first sergeant approached the platoon and stood in front, looking them over. "Men, it's my pleasure to inform you that you have earned a one-day liberty pass. Congratulations on your high marks."

He stepped back and Drill Instructor Peytin took his place. "You meatheads got lucky, and because of that, I have to release you dumb puppies on the civilian population where you can try to forget about me for a day. You have a one-day pass. That does not mean you are free to do what you want. Your liberty begins when I decide to release you from formation, and it ends at lights-out tonight. To- _night_ , meatheads. That means your sorry asses are expected to be back _here_ in the barracks _before_ lights-out! You are allowed to leave the base and go into town. Transportation will be provided. But this does _not_ mean you meatheads have permission to do whatever you please!"

The drill instructor raised his voice over the rumbling sound of the engine of the gray-green bus coming out from the direction of the motor pool. "You are _not_ allowed to get drunk. I don't want you animals coming back here and puking all over my base camp and holding your heads like a bunch of whiny crybabies when you are back in formation at zero-four-hundred hours tomorrow morning! You are _not_ allowed to visit a house of ill repute. I don't want to see you puppies holding yourselves like a two-year old who has to go make wee and getting time off from training to get your drippy dicks treated. You are _not_ allowed to get into fights, or do anything which will hinder your ability to pull guard duty tonight -- Markinson, Taylor, Osgood, I'm looking at you! -- or fall into line tomorrow morning. You _will_ conduct yourselves in a manner befitting of soldiers of the Amestrian Army and _not_ do anything to make me embarrassed to be responsible for you! You _are_ allowed one day free of P.T., K.P., and me riding your ass like the devil himself is after you! _That_ is what you have earned! Do you meatheads get that?"

"Clear, Drill Instructor!"

"All right, puppies! _Dis_ -MISSED! Get out of my face!"

Approximately half of the platoon made a run for the bus to get off the base for a day. The rest stayed behind, most of them staggering off to the barracks to catch up on sleep.

"I had the general orders right?" Jean still couldn't quite believe it as he looked at Breda.

He clapped him on the shoulder. "You got 'em."

"After lunch, you wanna help me study for the AMAT retesting? Please?"

"We'll meet in the library. What about now?"

"Fuck now, man. I'm going back to bed."

Breda's chuckle was as tired as Jean felt. "I hear you on that one."

***

The remaining three weeks of basic blew by, with every spare minute and even a few he really couldn't afford to spare going into studying for the AMAT retake. With high enough scores, the platoon graduated with honors, and to Jean's elation, he passed the AMAT, squeaking by with the rock bottom minimum needed.

The first day of his arrival at Camp Tuskady was hectic. Word came in that the State Alchemists were being deployed, and the Powers That Be predicted a quick end to the conflict. There were mixed feelings among the officer candidates over the news, because it was more likely than not, if the rumors were true, that the activity in Ishbal would be over before their fourteen weeks of training was up.

And the training was brutal. If he had thought of basic as hard, OCS pushed him to their limits and kept pushing. Jean was an officer candidate now, which set him and the others apart. Basic training made them soldiers. The intensive work in OCS was meant to sift the chaff from the grain and create more than just mere soldiers. They were going to be leaders, responsible for the lives of a dozen men or more under them on the field. Only two weeks in, Jean was already mentally and physically exhausted. They all were. Breda had complained of a lifelong weight problem, and for once, he wasn't even on target weight. The man looked under it, as did all the candidates. Even Jean's BDUs were starting to hang loose on him, and he had to cut another hole in his belt to keep his pants up. But six weeks in, slowly but surely, Jean started to feel like he was getting on top of things.

At least until they started practice maneuvers. His first time out leading a platoon of other candidates had been all kinds of special. The training group had been broken down into two platoons, with one given the assignment to set up an ambush for the other. Jean had been placed in charge of the group setting the ambush.

The captain had congratulated him, telling the team that their exercise would undoubtedly go down in the annals of officer training classes as a study of everything _not_ to do when setting an ambush. If that had been a real firefight, they would have been dead. It hadn't helped him at all that he was up against Breda, who was quick to seize on Jean's mistakes and turn what could have been a disaster for his team into an uncontested victory.

Then the captain went on to point out that was what the classes were for -- so they did their fucking up where it didn't matter, and learn the lesson then rather than later when they'd have to tally up their own platoon's KIAs as a price. They all learned that lesson. And that was the last time Jean made those mistakes again.

Now they were all off on their own, having been driven out to the middle of nowhere in the back of a truck, unable to see out to get any idea which direction they'd been taken, much less any idea where they were. One by one, they were dumped in different places, loaded down with full combat field gear, a rifle, a pistol, two canteens, a compass, and a map.

And a time limit of thirty-six hours to find their way home.

It was up to them to figure out where they were, and up to them to figure out where to go. They were markers in various locations which were supposed to confirm that they were either on the right path, or LBS, as the captain had put it. Lost Bigger than Shit.

He'd wasted about two hours wandering around in vague hopes he was going in the right direction somehow before logic caught up with him and Jean sat down to study his map. To the southwest of the training base, it was mostly open terrain, and at a pretty much true north, it broke apart into a tangled mess of forests and gullies that climbed higher up into hills. A check at the map verified that.

He knew where he had to go. The trick was figuring out where he was starting from. With some help from his compass, and another hour of studying the surrounding area, he concluded with tentative certainty that he was sixty miles due west of the camp. If he was right, another couple hours of hiking in that direction would take him to a river, from where he'd have to travel south to a bridge.

Either way, he was going to spend the night out there, and he made note to keep watch on the sun's position to give himself enough time to set camp. He'd gone on hunting trips by himself in his teenage years, but that was in woods he'd known like the back of his hand. It was vaguely creepy being out in the open on unfamiliar terrain with the only noises coming from unseen wildlife and the wind.

To fight the exhaustion and keep his mind from slipping into a fatigued trance, Jean pretended that he wasn't alone, but in charge of the remains of a platoon stranded in the heart of enemy territory. He wasn't sure who the enemy was, since they were certainly not in the desert out at Ishbal where the war was going on, and it wasn't cold enough to be the Drachmans. But they were the enemy just the same, faceless, nameless bad guys who carried weapons that had bullets with their names on them. If he didn't stay sharp and alert, the lives of the survivors would be on his shoulders.

Maybe it was the overactive imagination of childhood dropping in for a visit, or maybe it was the fatigue. More than likely, it was both. Jean found himself wrapped up so far in his little game of make-believe that it was hard to stop and rest, stop to eat, stop and sleep. There was a perimeter to check, he had men that were depending on him to save their lives and lead them to safety away from the enemy soldiers hot on their heels.

It didn't occur to him how much time had passed until he realized he was looking at the quarter mile marker. He was almost back to the base. That pulled him out of his fatigue-powered mental games and brought in a fresh surge of energy. Sure enough, as he cleared the top of the small hill, he could see the buildings. Everything else was forgotten but the prospect of sleeping in a real bed and eating hot food as he adjusted his pack and made a run for the gates.

First stop was the instructor's office, then he was home free. Sweat-soaked, drained, and winded, he staggered to a stop, hands braced on the desk. "Candidate Havoc reporting in." At least, that's what he tried to say, amid deep gasps for oxygen.

"Congratulations, Candidate. You completed the exercise in twenty-seven hours. Good job." Captain Vallero stood and extended his hand. 

Jean wiped his hand on his grimy BDUs in an effort to clean it off before shaking it. "Breda back yet?"

"Not yet, but you're only the ninth candidate who's returned yet."

"Who had the best time?"

"Coleman, with twenty-two and a half hours. But we're not in competition. You all had to face varying distances and terrain. I have to say I'm surprised to see you back this early, Candidate. You mind sharing your secret?"

Jean blushed and stammered. "I- I, uh- well, see, it was like this... uh, it was a bit... I guess the word would be creepy out there on my own, sir. Not to mention I was pretty tired. It got tempting to sit down and rest but I was afraid of not making it back in time. After a while, I started pretending there were men with me, pretending I was leading a platoon in enemy territory and tryin' to get them back to a friendly zone. I guess I got a bit caught up in it 'cause I didn't get a lot of rest."

The captain leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers together. "I see." He reached out and flipped a file folder open, looking it over. "Candidate Havoc, your classroom scores are among the worst I've seen, quite frankly. You scraped by in the testing with the bare minimum. You wouldn't even have been accepted into OCS if not for this letter of recommendation from your drill instructor."

Jean blinked. He'd done that much for him? But the captain was clearly not finished and he swallowed hard, bracing for the worst.

"I think your former instructor was right. You have poor book smarts, worse than we like to see in our officers, but you have the potential to be a damn fine officer and a leader of men. We've lost a lot of good ones in that damned war, and we need people like you. This isn't to say you're allowed to slack off on your book work, quite the contrary. But if your scores are high enough, even if they don't quite reach a passing grade, everything else is good enough to qualify you for graduation."

He managed to force his exhausted muscles to cooperate into a salute. "I won't let you down, sir."

Vallero smiled. "I know you won't, Candidate. Now stow your gear and hit the showers. There'll be hot food waiting for you in the mess when you're done."

"Yes, sir!" Jean saluted the captain, making a mental promise that the remaining four weeks were going to get everything he had, and then some.

***

There was a sizable crowd at the graduation ceremony. Not everyone had family who could make it, but Jean's parents found a way to afford the trip out to the base. Breda's father was there as well, and the two new officers stood in ranks, in brand-new full dress blue and gray uniforms, lined up in alphabetical order, and a good number of them had someone standing on the field with them.

They had all received their post orders two weeks prior. Although Jean got the post he'd been hoping for, at East HQ which wasn't too far from his hometown, and where he could be put to work cleaning up the aftermath of the Ishbal war, to his disappointment, Breda was being assigned to Central.

As the base commander and Captain Vallero stopped in front of Lieutenant Gruene, Jean stood a bit straighter. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his father puff his chest out more, unable to keep a huge grin off his face. As much as he loved his mother, he was rather glad it was his father out there with him, because he could see her in the stands, her face half-covered with the white handkerchief she was sobbing into. His mother cried at everything -- graduations, weddings, funerals, births, even a good long rain when the ground was getting too dry for the crops to handle.

They stopped in front of him, and Jean immediately raised his hand in a perfect salute.

"Candidate Jean Havoc, your leadership qualities demonstrate the best of what an officer should be, and it is with pride and pleasure that I present your stars." The base commander, Colonel Scott, returned the salute, as did Captain Vallero.

Jean lowered his hand. "Thank you, Colonel Scott, sir."

Captain Vallero stepped up and pinned a star to the left shoulder of his uniform, then opened the second box, presenting it to his father. The senior Havoc reached out and held the star gingerly, as if afraid he might crush the metal in his big, work-calloused farmer's hands. After a moment of fumbling, he got the back of the pin off, and put it onto Jean's right shoulder.

When they were done, he saluted again, which both superior officers returned. "Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc, congratulations on your commission. Welcome to the Army," said Colonel Scott.

He barely remembered the rest of it. It seemed almost unreal -- he'd made it. He was an officer. When he joined the military he'd never figured he was more than NCO material, but... officer. He was a second lieutenant. In the back of his mind he expected for the lights to come on, for a drill instructor to pound on the walls and raise unholy hell for a wake-up call and another assembly and ten mile run before breakfast. It was over. 

***

The last five months seemed like a lifetime, and in many ways, it was. Neither man came out the same person he'd been on going in. They weren't boys anymore. They were men. Soldiers. Officers.

And the prospect of no longer seeing each other on a daily basis was alien.

"Hard to believe it's been less than half a year." Breda had to raise his voice to be heard over the shrill hissing of steam from the train's engine.

"Yeah." Jean shook his head. "You wear those stars well."

"So do you. You earned 'em."

"You better write to me, buddy."

"Count on it. Tell me if you ever manage to land yourself a girlfriend now that you've got that spiffy officer's uniform."

"I'll be boring you with all my wild exploits. I'll have to beat them off with a stick when I get home." Jean grinned.

Breda snorted. "Sure you will."

The conductor shouted a warning that the train was about to depart.

"You better get goin', you don't wanna be late to your first post."

"Yeah." Breda looked at the train again, not making a move.

"Hey, man. It's just our first posts. There's gotta be a way to get assigned together again somewhere."

"You drag me up North, I kick your ass."

"I was gonna tell you the same thing."

"You keep your nose clean and watch your back."

"You too."

In the last five months, the unlikely friendship with Breda had led him to the brother he'd never had. There wasn't anyone he trusted more in the world than him. 

"Last call! ALL ABOARD!"

Jean took a step back and stood at rigid attention, snapping his hand up in a salute. "See you later, Lieutenant Breda."

Breda returned it. "Not if I see you first, Lieutenant Havoc."

Jean grinned. "Now get your ugly mug out of-- the train's moving!"

"Shit!" Breda bolted for the ramp and grabbed hold of the handles as he swung up onto the steps, pausing to wave behind him. Jean waved back, his grin slowly fading into a quiet smile as he watched the train fade into the west.

To distract himself from noticing how quiet it suddenly felt, and to kill a bit of time before his own transport arrived in the station, Jean pulled out his transfer orders.

"He's a Lieutenant Colonel already?" Jean muttered to himself. "Guess the rumors about his work as the Flame Alchemist weren't exaggerating." He'd asked around, but he hadn't been able to find out very much about his new commanding officer. He hadn't socialized much with the men, and the most people seemed able to say about him was that at least he didn't come across as crazy as the Crimson Alchemist.

What really got his curiosity though was apparently the man requested him to be assigned to his office. Paperwork and book smarts weren't his strong suit.

That was okay, though. If he wanted somebody like that, Jean knew just the man to recommend. With a final look to the west, he picked up his duffel and walked down the platform as his train pulled in.

**\- end**


End file.
